He walks up to the television and turns it off manually, the room growing two shades darker in its absence.
“Listen, man, I’ve been thinking.”
Before he says a word, I know where this is going. The same thoughts were passing through my head a few days ago, completely replaced once the scores for the newest video started piling up.
We are going at a pace we cannot hope to maintain. I don’t have the free space on my arms or the brain cells to continue losing to alcohol and marijuana to keep this going forever.
“I know where you’re going with this,” I say, holding a hand out, my palm facing towards him, “and let me say something first.”
“I know what you’re going to say,” he fires back, jumping in without giving me a moment to continue.
Annoyance flashes across my face as he does so, though I manage to hold my tongue as he speaks.
“And I agree,” he says, “the numbers are great, all this stuff is fun, but where’s it going? Are we just going to continue partying and making videos and throwing them online for eternity?”
When I woke on Sunday, I figured he might be reaching for the ejection handle. While we both know he enjoys making the videos and being the guy behind the camera, the parties and antics are escalating at a rapid clip. There’s only so long he can be expected to sit in the background, being the butt of drunken jokes, taking a punch to the face.
“I get it,” I say, keeping my voice low, hoping to sound sincere, “I do. You want out.”
He stares at me a moment before the same small smile as before crosses his features.
“Actually, no. Well, not right now anyway.”
He pauses at that, again drawing in a deep breath.
“I’m saying we’ve been approached by someone who wants to offer us corporate sponsorship.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Monday May 14th, 2012
9:09 am
Over an hour of debate took place discussing what we should wear to our first ever meeting with Corporate America. Clearly neither of us has ever been in such a situation, knowing only what we’ve seen on television as a frame of reference.
In that regard, Quasi wanted to go for the buttoned-up look; maybe not complete suits but something close to it. I countered that if Chaz D and his crew were what they wanted to back, that’s who should walk through the door.
It took quite a bit of convincing, and even a bit of cajoling, but eventually we agreed to play the part.
At the time, it had made perfect sense to me, the only logical option for us to pursue. Now as we sit shoulder to shoulder in the front office of Rider Life, I am slightly less certain.
The website online showed a new and burgeoning store dedicated to all of the trappings of motorcycle life. It has women dressed in leather thongs straddling Harleys and men in black vests and boots riding the open road; every sort of apparel a person would ever need to climb onto a motorcycle. If something could be cut from leather or fastened with a spiked stud, this site had it.
That I could handle. The problem is, this office could not be further from that in every way.
Located on the first level of a four-story office building in the suburb of Brentwood, there is very little at all to denote a biker way of life. The entire place is open and airy, using floor-to-ceiling glass as walls with a direct view out to a small pond in the back.
So far, every employee we have encountered is dressed in sharp business casual attire, looking closer to cut-outs from a J. Crew catalog than someone that would ever be seen on a motorcycle.
“Good morning, thank you for coming,” a man says, his voice entering before he does.
Quasi and I both flinch in our seats as he passes through the door behind us, a young blonde in tow.
“My name is Vance McCreary, this is my assistant Analeigh Binn.”
We both rise halfway out of our seats and exchange handshakes with them, nodding and murmuring our names in turn.
My first impression of McCreary is of a trust fund kid, the kind of guy we both made a point of avoiding through high school. I’d peg him as late thirties, crow’s feet and smile lines giving him some years on us. That number could be skewed, though, based on the pressed slacks and dress shirt he’s wearing, the heavy watch on his wrist.
Money has a way of shaving off the years I’ve learned.
Wearing an oversized smile, he settles into his chair across from us, Binn lowering herself into a seat off to the side. Wearing a dress with a blazer over it, it is clear within a moment that her role is to be seen and not heard.
“So, again, thank you for coming in today,” McCreary says, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table.
He laces his fingers in front of him and looks us both straight in the eye, wanting everyone present to know who’s in charge. Any intimidation I felt upon first entering is fast fading to the background, overtaken by a strong dislike for this prick.
“Thank you for having us,” Quasi says, his voice still wearing some of the trepidation I felt a moment before.
I nod, but remain silent.
“The reason we reached out to you, as I’m sure you’ve guessed,” McCreary says, “is based on your series of web videos.”
As he speaks, he turns to the side and makes a few clicks with his mouse, staring at the monitor on his desk. My guess is he is pulling them up on YouTube, though from where I sit, I can’t be certain.
“You guys have really built an impressive following. This last video you posted is well on its way to two hundred thousand viewings. That’s no small potatoes.”
We’re still a good twenty thousand shy of that figure. Already I can tell he is merely blowing smoke at us, his smile having not once flinched since he walked in the door. Three minutes in and for some reason I feel certain this isn’t going to go the way we want.
“Thank you,” we both murmur, nodding.
“Have you guys built this all yourself?” he asks. “We’ve done some digging and found a Twitter and Facebook account, but otherwise no other footprint online.”
My brow comes together a bit, confusion clouding my features.
“Footprint?”
“Yeah,” he says, shifting to look directly at me.
He spreads his hands wide as he talks, like a teacher speaking to a class.
“A personal website, an actual business, those sorts of things.”
I take slight offense at his term actual business but simply nod in understanding.
“No,” Quasi replies, “nothing like that. This just started out as a couple of guys who wanted to get out and try some new things. Once interest began to take off, we just kept going with it.”
McCreary nods as if Quasi is sharing the directions to the Holy Grail, his face never once wavering from its smile.
“Wow. That’s incredible.”
He glances to Binn along the way and says, “The power of social media, I tell you.”
She smiles politely and nods before going straight back to the notepad on her lap and scribbling furiously, as if every word he says is gospel.
“That’s actually part of why we contacted you,” McCreary says, shifting back to us and launching straight ahead. “As you can see from how chaotic things are around here, we’re still getting stuff off the ground. We feel there is a real opportunity for the two of us to help each other.”
Since the moment we arrived, McCreary has been in charge. From making us wait in his office, staring at the ridiculous display case of a small college football ring and the pictures of his perfect wife on the desk, to controlling the conversation.
That ends now.
“I’m sorry, but can you please explain to us what exactly Rider Life is?” I ask.
My leather jacket lets out a slight wheezing sound as I raise an arm and wave it about, motioning to the office outside.
“Because your online footprint and your real-life operation don’t exactly seem to jive.”
I can feel Quasi t
ense up beside me, drawing in a breath of air. Across from me, the smile fades a tiny bit on McCreary’s face, his features sagging just a touch. In one single statement, I have managed to let him know both that we aren’t here to simply be pandered to and that we too have done our homework.
“Impressive,” McCreary responds, nodding for effect, “and you are quite right, thank you for noticing.”
The response is certainly not what I expect, though I manage not to show it in any way.
“Rider Life is a startup that has been designed with the so-called Weekend Warriors in mind,” he says, using his fingers to make air quotations. “Those people who own a motorcycle and like to revel in the image of having it sit in the driveway without having to actually live the lifestyle.”
He glances between us, waiting for some form of response.
We give him none.
“We’ve all heard about the fabled One Percenters,” he continues. “Not the rich elite that every hippie beatnik was protesting last winter, the other kind, the ones who really, truly live the biker lifestyle. Go to rallies, think Sturgis is their mecca, brawl with other gangs over the vests they are wearing.
“What our research has found is that most of the apparel and marketing surrounding motorcyclists is aimed at that demographic, which is just foolish. Companies should be working on that other ninety-nine percent; the corporate guys who like to take their bike out on Sundays or a group of buddies who might take a trip once a year.”
“Which is where you come in?” Quasi asks.
His tone shows that he is starting to feel a bit more comfortable, though obviously doesn’t feel the same distrust I do.
“Exactly,” McCreary says, somehow lighting up even further and pointing at Quasi. “Starting here in Nashville, we’d like to corner a piece of that market and hopefully go from there.”
He adds a bit of a flourish to the closing words, a crescendo to cap off a rehearsed piece he’s given dozens of times before. When he is done, he sits beaming behind his desk, almost like he’s waiting for us to break into applause.
It is clear there’s more he isn’t telling us, I’m just not sure quite what.
“So then where we would come in?” I ask, glancing to Quasi. “Are you asking us to make a video about learning to ride a motorcycle?”
I already know this isn’t his intention, though I’m going to make him spell it out completely.
“That would be cool,” Quasi whispers, turning to face me. “We never thought of that one.”
I wave him off with a tiny shake of the head, not bothering to glance over, my attention on McCreary.
“As Mr. Fullman said,” McCreary replies, motioning to Quasi, “that would be cool, and certainly something to keep in mind moving forward. I think what we had in mind though was something a little bit more overarching.”
Turning to Binn, he extends a hand, receiving a thin stack of papers from her. He places them on the desk in front of him, flipping through them one at a time.
“According to our research, you are fast growing quite the following here in Nashville. In just four months, you two have managed to go from nothing to almost half a million hits, while offering no tangible goods and having no presence beyond social media.”
The number is actually well above a half million, though I don’t bother to correct him. Something tells me that given the eventuality he’s building toward, it won’t matter anyway.
“Meaning?” I ask.
“Meaning we would like to harness and even enhance that capability,” McCreary says, dropping the papers before him. “We think, together, we can boost both of our exposures.”
“But why us?” I ask. “This is Nashville. Our viewings are nothing compared to every athlete and country music star in town.”
I’m not terribly well versed at this sort of thing, but would be willing to bet that Taylor Swift sees more online hits in a couple of days than we’ve managed in four months.
“True,” McCreary says, twisting his head to the side in a nod of concession, “but they don’t exactly match our target audience the way you do.”
The familiar weightless feeling in my stomach, the one usually reserved for new tattoos or trying some form of mind-altering substance, rises within me. Even before he explains further, I know I’m not going to like where this is going, will be soon moving past irked and right into pissed.
“Target audience?” Quasi asks, voicing the same question I was just about to unleash.
McCreary’s eyebrows rise a little bit, his head rocking back an inch. He extends a hand towards us and says, “Well, yeah. I mean, you guys aren’t exactly tough. You’re a couple of middle-class white kids who are out experimenting with a video phone.
“In a way, that’s exactly who we’re trying to reach with our product line. Like I said, we don’t want the One Percenters, the guys who really do live the life. We want everybody else. We want the middle-class parents who are out experimenting with the bike they bought on their midlife crisis.”
He stares at us a moment. Beside me, Quasi sits in silence, beginning to fidget, not sure how to respond. I can feel heat rising to my cheeks, sweat forming under my jacket.
“Well, what do you guys think?”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Friday, January 21st, 2015
6:42 pm
The smell of stroganoff and egg noodles is heavy in the air. For as careful as I tried to be, working with only one hand and using a plastic fork inhibited me somewhat. Tiny spots of sauce dot the front of my jumpsuit, ensuring the scent will linger even long after the trash is removed.
Despite Marshall’s earlier warning, I am still tethered by only a single wrist, allowing me to stand. I can feel my stomach digesting the enormous double meal as I do so, but relish the freedom on my back and neck too much to dare yet sit down.
While standing, I am careful not to stare directly down at Pearson, not wanting to be imposing or intimidating in any way. I know the extra time is a treat Marshall is allowing me given my dwindling life expectancy, though there is little doubt he’ll be through the door in a millisecond should I abuse the privilege.
“And what did you think?” Pearson asks, her entire focus on the screen in front of her.
Her trip to the bathroom took over twenty minutes, almost the entirety of what it took for me to eat. When she returned, she began to nibble on a Tupperware container full of grapes, taking them in one at a time as she worked. Her earlier demeanor is gone, back to the rigid front she has used for most of the day.
“I hated it,” I say, turning perpendicular to the table, my wrist hanging by my side. “I hated McCreary and hated the arrangement he proposed.”
In my periphery I see her nod, though if this is to indicate she suspected as much or that she agrees with my take, I’m not sure.
“And, more than anything, I hated the insinuations he made against us,” I say, feeling my fist clench into a tight ball. “Or rather, me. Quasi never held himself out to be anything more than the camera guy in the vest. I, on the other hand, was supposed to be Chaz D, everything that we thought a man should be.”
I pause again, this time looking down at her. There is no move to make her uneasy, no threat in my posture. The stance is simply to let her know what comes next is vitally important.
“It was in that moment that any shred of the whole James Buchanan charade disintegrated,” I say, matching her gaze. “From then on, it was all about us.”
I use the term us, though ninety percent or more of that was me. I felt insulted and angry, like a stubborn child lashing out.
“So you told them no?” she asks, already knowing the answer again but asking it just the same.
“Emphatically. I told McCreary to go to hell, and to my surprise, Quasi backed me up. He wasn’t quite as over-the-top as me, but even he saw that what they were trying to pull wasn’t right.”
Pearson is the first to break eye contact, going back to her screen and rattling off sequen
ces at a frenetic pace.
“And what were they trying to pull?” she asks.
“They needed us, but they insulted us,” I reply, feeling the muscles in my jaw grow tight as I say the words. “They wanted to capitalize on our potential market value, yet didn’t feel the need to acknowledge what we were. They looked at us like a couple of actors, kids out playing dress up for the cameras.”
“Weren’t you?” she asks, the words catching me completely off guard. Mid-sentence I turn to stare at her, the previous animosity floating away.
It is something I am acutely aware of today, no matter how angry it still makes me, though it is the first time anybody has ever called me on it.
“I know that now,” I say, my voice returning to normal, “but I certainly didn’t then.”
I lower myself back into the chair as Marshall enters the room, drawing our attention over. He moves with practiced and methodical efficiency, returning both wrists to their manacles and grabbing the sack of garbage from the table.
“I’m sorry,” he says, glancing to Pearson, “but Row rules say all prisoners must be in their cell at ten. Non-negotiable.”
Her mouth parts a half-inch as she looks at me, a question on her face.
“That should just about do it,” I say, addressing her but letting my voice be loud enough for Marshall to hear.
Turning to face him, Pearson nods once and says, “That will be fine, thank you.”
We both watch as he departs before shifting back to face forward. After the freedom of a single shackle, I feel cramped and hobbled again, the same stiffness I’ve been fighting all afternoon already settling in.
“That’s just less than three hours,” Pearson says, “and we haven’t even gotten to...”
“I know,” I say. “Like I said, that should do it.”
III
The Downfall
Chapter Forty-Nine
Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral Page 66